


Hallelujah

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-24
Updated: 2005-05-24
Packaged: 2018-12-27 00:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12070491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: An early morning encounter.





	Hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

_And remember when I moved in you_  
The Holy Dark was moving too  
And every breath we drew was hallelujah 

I make a small adjustment to the water temperature…crank it up just a little bit…and smile as the kid sucks his breath in when the water hits his skin. He is already facing the shower enclosure so I put my hand between his shoulder blades and push him up against the glass. He sighs…not a bad sigh, an anticipatory sigh…braces his arms on the enclosure, and sticks his butt out. 

I’m hard, of course. It’s early morning, and everybody knows that testosterone levels are highest in the morning. You can ask Justin about my morning testosterone levels – I lost count a long time ago of the number of morning stiffies he’s taken care of.

I run my other hand slowly down the kid’s flank, taking my time, enjoying his body. I spend a few extra seconds appreciating his round, firm ass, then I run my hand down his crack to his hole. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and slowly slide first one finger, then a second, in. The first finger seems barely to register, but he gives a little gasp as I work the second in past the knuckle. I pause to let him adjust. I work my fingers, opening him up, then grab a condom and roll it on. 

I replace my fingers with my dick as quickly as I can, but this time his gasp is more of a moan. I shut my eyes and brace myself against the enclosure with one arm. I continue pushing in slowly and steadily, all the while caressing Justin with my other hand. “That’s good,” I mutter, circling his tit, running my hand down his belly. “That’s good, you’re doing fine. You’re a good boy.” Nonsense words, words to distract him, words to make my intrusion easier for him.

God, being in him feels good. Feels like home. I sniff and smell my shampoo in his hair, my soap on his skin. I start moving harder, faster, mimicking my moves in his ass with my hand on his dick. He pushes back against me harder and rotates his ass a little, and I feel my balls pull in and I know I’m going to come. One more thrust, a series of quick, involuntary jabs, and I am blessedly obliterated, no more questions, no more thinking, no more Brian Kinney, just fuck fuck fuck. 

Afterwards I lock my knees in place to keep from collapsing and, without changing position, jack him off.

Then I open my eyes, straighten up, and look at him. “Shit. Fuck. Damn it to hell!”

“What’s the matter?” the kid asks.

I just look at him. I can’t tell him I’ve done it again, can’t tell him about the mind games I play with myself so that I believe for a few short minutes that he is Justin Taylor. 

“Never mind,” I say. “Get your clothes on and get out.”

The kid – he couldn’t have been more than nineteen - looks at me speculatively. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Brian, but…you know…you are kind of a strange dude. One minute you are the nicest guy in the world and the next minute…well, the next minute, you’re kind of a prick.”

That black fog that accompanies me everywhere is back. I have to get to out of the loft, have get to work, have to lock up these feelings in the compartment marked, “Good-by Justin.” Work is one way I manage pain. Based on this morning’s experience, the other way isn’t working too well any more.

I stare at the kid stonily. “Get. Out.” 

He gets, and I go to work. I’m fine until 6:30 p.m. when I clear off my desk. Then my morning encounter crashes around me, and I bend over in my chair, arms clasped over my stomach. “Jesus,” I say out loud, “how much longer?” I’m not sure whether I mean, How much longer until I can go 24 hours without remembering of the sight of Justin leaving Babylon with Ethan? or How much longer before I stop expecting to see him next to me when I wake up? or How much longer before I stop saving up little incidents to tell him, bits of news that I only share with him

I don’t know the answers. 

I only know the pain.

_It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah._  
Rufus Wainwright, “Hallelujah”


End file.
